Mentality
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: It was weird. But Sherlock was having a panic attack. Re-write of the Hounds of the Baskerville scene. Doctor!John.


**Mentality**

John tilted his head, watching Sherlock.

If he were anybody else, John would say that it almost looked like Sherlock was having a panic attack. But Sherlock _Holmes_ didn't have those, of course not, because that was emotion and Sherlock didn't do emotion.

But yet, the signs were there. Sweating, irregular breathing, shaking. Not to mention that Sherlock actually was gulping at a whisky, at alcohol, something that he never touched. That was a big tip-off.

It was weird. But Sherlock was having a panic attack.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock huffed out a breath and pressed his fingers to his temples. His hands were visibly shaking.

"Sherlock."

John got up and went over to Sherlock, grabbing one of his hands.

Sherlock flinched and tried to pull away. "What _are_ you doing?"

John pressed two fingers against his wrist. "You need to calm down."

Sherlock's eyes flicked erratically from John's fingers on his wrist to John's face, shooting across the boutique and settling ont he fire.

"I don't know what you saw, but it was not a mutant super-dog. You know this," John said firmly. "You may think it was the Hound, but it was probably just a big dog."

"_I_ saw it, John. _I_ saw it... Henry was right. It was the Hound. There's a Hound..."

Sherlock's breathing was still far too shallow for John's liking. He took Sherlock's hand and pressed two of the detective's fingers against his own wrist.

"Hey. Look. Sherlock." He waved his hand in front of his face, drawing back the shaken detective's attention back to him. "Press your fingers down," he said, applying a bit of pressure over Sherlock's fingers on his wrist. "That's my pulse, alright? I need yours to be like that."

Sherlock flicked his gaze to John's wrist. He did press his fingers down slightly, fingernails biting gently into John's skin.

"Good," John said patiently. He crouched down on his knees so he was more at Sherlock's level, looking up at him. "I need you to take a deep breath, okay?" he asked, moreover said, evenly. "Watch me."

"I _know_ how to breathe," Sherlock griped, making to lift his hand away.

John clasped his hand down on top of Sherlock's. "No, we're doing this my way. Take a deep breath."

Sherlock stared at him, the glare not quite making it to his gaze this time. He still looked far too shaken, far too crushed to resemble the poignancy of Sherlock Holmes.

His logic had been smothered by whatever he had seen on that moor. John couldn't help him get it back, only Sherlock could do that with his experiments and his ability to solve this case, but he could help him to come back to himself a bit.

John kept Sherlock's gaze and pointedly took a deep breath himself. Sherlock stared at him blankly before drawing in a huge breath, sounding like he had forgotten to keep breathing for a moment.

"Good," John praised. "Do it again."

Sherlock closed his eyes, chest rising and falling with a much more even breath. John uttered his approval again; Sherlock continued the breathing technique on his own without John's example.

John didn't move, keeping Sherlock's hand sandwiched between both of his on the detective's knee. He only started to feel awkward when Sherlock didn't reopen his eyes; it wasn't as if they were being a distraction, but he was still managing to draw attention from a few other people in the boutique.

Still, he didn't say anything. He was noting changes; Sherlock's breathing had evened out, his curls were no longer trembling against his face, his hands were steady, albeit his fingers were still firmly pressed against John's pulse.

He opened his eyes after a minute and John looked up questioningly.

"Alright?"

Sherlock slowly pulled his hand from between John's, leaning back against the seat heavily. He didn't look like he was panicking now, which was good, but he looked thoroughly knackered.

"You should go to bed," John commented, standing. He pointedly did not wipe the sweat from Sherlock's palms on his trousers yet.

Sherlock shook his head, once.

"At least go back to the room. I'll bring you back something with some sugar for a pick-up."

Sherlock sighed heavily, letting out a gusty breath that he didn't seem to know he'd been holding.

"Come on," John said, holding out his hand. "You're not in any state, anyway." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John interrupted. "Not right now, you know that. Have a shower, rest, watch some telly. Eat."

Sherlock's nostrils flared in would-be irritation, but he grasped John's hand and allowed him to pull him to his feet.

"I'll be back in a bit. Any preference for food?"

"No," Sherlock said, striding from the dining area.

John went back to their room a few minutes later, toting a chocolate milkshake and a basket of chips for himself. Sherlock appeared to be locked in the bathroom; the shower was running. At least he was somewhat suggestible in this state, John thought.

He put the milkshake down on Sherlock's nightstand and flopped into the armchair, flicking on the television.

Sherlock returned shortly, dressing gown wrapped around his lanky form. "Isn't that a bit unhealthy?" he asked, nodding to the milkshake.

"It's got sugar. And I didn't think you felt up to fish and chips."

"True." Sherlock went over to his bag, pulling out pyjama pants and a t-shirt. He didn't go back to the bathroom, so John turned back to television while Sherlock stepped into his trousers.

"Feeling better?" he asked absently.

"Was I supposed to be?" Sherlock asked, falling into the chair opposite John. He prodded absently at the melting milkshake with the provided spoon.

"You need to eat," John said. "You've had a shock."

"I was not-"

"Yeah, you were," John said.

Displeasure was evident on Sherlock's face but he didn't respond.

"Eat," John repeated, pleased when Sherlock took a small bite.

They sat in silence for awhile as John finished off his chips and Sherlock picked his way through the milkshake.

"You'll figure it out, you know," John said.

Sherlock didn't look up. "I am aware."

"There's going to a be a logical explanation."

"Undoubtedly."

John sighed. He wasn't embellishing when he told Sherlock that he'd figure it out. No, he didn't believe that there was a mutant dog out there, but he _did_ believe that Sherlock had seen _something_. He had to have, lest he wouldn't be so distant about the whole thing. It had shaken his faith in his logic, in his own mind, in his body. It had made him vulnerable.

It didn't take a genius to realise that Sherlock _hated_ being vulnerable.

So, John wouldn't bring it up again. Sherlock was going to solve this case. He didn't have a doubt. He would, and the mystery behind it would be laid bare in front of them, and Sherlock would be able to see that his logic could still remain to be the most important thing to him of all.

* * *

**Don't get me wrong... I loved the panic scene in Cross Keys. The 'There is nothing wrong with me' deduction, the canon reference, the Spock tease, the 'I don't have friends'. I wouldn't change any of that. But I still think John did a _rubbish_ job with Sherlock. He's a doctor, for goodness sake. He should have realised that Sherlock was _really_ upset and acted accordingly. (Yeah, I know, he isn't used to Sherlock having emotion, but still...)**

**I've always thought it would have been a good place for doctor!John, wanted to write it, and finally got around to it. :p**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


End file.
